Exceptional

My son Noah is nine years old now, almost ten.

He is fire and madness and drives me crazy. Everyone says he is just like me. I think he's like my brother, who was always far more trouble than I was.

Noah plays the piano. He loves crafts (to my chagrin) and magic tricks. He has a beautiful smile.

At Christmastime, I like to give each of my boys one special thing from me to them. Something they never thought of, but lets them know I notice they are special. I always hope that if it isn't obvious at first, they will take time to think of why that gift was chosen for them. Sometimes it works and is magical. But they are kids. They are boys. (Insert eye-roll here.)

This year I bought Noah the book Wonder. Many of my seventh graders did presentations on it last year (I suspect they had read it in an earlier grade but whatever) and then my nephew told my sister that reading it changed his life.

If that's not a recommendation, I don't know what is.

If you don't know, Wonder is the story of a boy who, due to a genetic abnormality, has facial deformities and is starting school for the first time in fifth grade. That's just a byline, of course. It's a story about people. A family. A little boy. A teenaged girl. Humans.

Noah loved it so much he put it straight in my hands and begged me to read it.

"Then we can go and see the movie, Mom," he said. "Just us."

Today was that day.

I don't usually want to see a movie right after I finish the book. It's too easy to pick out the changes and cuts, which frustrates and annoys me. I didn't expect to enjoy anything except Noah's company.

About thirty minutes in, I was crying. Hard.

Forty-five minutes in, my cheeks were pruny from the tears. This was when Noah laid his head on my shoulder. When I looked over, his eyes were shining.

At the point when my sobs became audible, a tiny little arm (because my boy is small and scrawny) reached up and wrapped awkwardly around my neck. It pulled me close to a fuzzy blond head.

My heart exploded.

Watching Wonder with my wonderful boy.

When it comes to school, Noah lives for lunch and recess and dress-down days when he can wear the t-shirt that reads in bold lettering, "Dear Teacher, It doesn't matter where you move my seat. I talk to everyone." His mouth is rarely closed and he speaks at one volume: too loud. He fights fierce and mean and is serious about getting his way. He is, in short, a pain in the ass.

But he shines, too. He lights up the dark. After all, he is made of fire.

On the ride home, I was all emotional. I looked in the rearview mirror at him and said, "Noah, I love you. You are exceptional."

"You cried almost the whole movie, Mom. I gotta say, I was pretty embarrassed."